


Aziraphale's Garden

by White Queen Writes (fhartz91)



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Redemption, houseplants
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-02
Updated: 2019-08-02
Packaged: 2020-07-29 17:16:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20085850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fhartz91/pseuds/White%20Queen%20Writes
Summary: Aziraphale's plants grow so much better than Crowley's, and that pisses Crowley off ... until he finds out why.





	Aziraphale's Garden

**Author's Note:**

> Other people have probably done something similar and written it better, but here's mine.

Truth be told, Aziraphale had no interest in gardening.

None at all.

He loved _gardens_ for a bevy of sentimental reasons, but the plants within held the same charm for him that children did. He respected that they had a purpose. He realized their importance to the people of Earth. He believed that everyone had an obligation, no matter how big or small, to help nurture them. He agreed that flowers were very lovely, one of God’s greatest creations – though possibly a tad overrated when compared to the bounty of Her other work.

But that was as far as his interest extended.

He respected all life, valued every slithering, crawling, swimming, flying, walking thing, but that was vastly different than possessing a desire to grow something from the ground up and invest in its well-being.

Which was one of the reasons why he found his demon’s interest in horticulture so fascinating … and endearing.

Initially, Aziraphale kept only one plant in his shop, and for obvious reasons.

A _Sansevieria trifasciata_, otherwise known as a ‘snake plant’.

It thrived in low light and was best left alone. It needed no fussing, little to no watering.

Nearly no care at all.

It reminded him of a certain someone.

Or so Aziraphale thought.

That was before he stumbled across an abused Chinese Evergreen, shredded crudely and discarded atop a rubbish heap outside Crowley’s flat. A touch to its one surviving leaf – flawless except for a single brown spot - told the angel that his demon had had a hand in its demise, along with the demolition of a variety of other unlucky flora, tossed aside and left in the elements to decay. Many people probably passed it by and saw only compost – the remains of plants that refused to thrive. But Aziraphale recognized it for what it was.

Anger.

Fear.

Helplessness.

Hopelessness.

Pain.

_Crowley’s_ pain.

It broke the angel’s heart.

With gentle hands and softly spoken words of comfort, Aziraphale collected the Evergreen, along with a few other contenders, ones with enough identifiable parts that he could recognize them as plants, and took them back to his bookshop. He knew the basics of plant care - that they needed food, water, sunlight, classical music, and stimulating company. But propagating a plant from tatters? Without the use of a miracle, it seemed impossible.

Luckily, he knew where he could find a few reliable books on the subject.

***

Crowley regarded Aziraphale’s plants covetously. His angel’s collection rivaled his own. He’d turned one lowly snake plant into an entire rooftop garden, and in record time. And they grew so exceptionally – lush, vibrant, green and spotless …

… Crowley wasn’t going to lie (_this_ time) – it made him burn with jealousy.

Crowley had asked Aziraphale how he’d managed it. Since he didn’t see a plethora of angry Post-Its hanging about from the angel’s higher ups demanding that he stop wasting miracles to make his plants grow, he had to have some earthly secret – something more compelling than Crowley’s own “the beatings will continue until morale improves”. His angel smiled and replied, “A bit of love, a dash of patience, and a heaping spoonful of praise,” like it was a damned recipe for his favorite tiramisu. Crowley had scoffed, asked him again, but Aziraphale persisted, and because of that, Crowley avoided Aziraphale’s garden like a spring wedding reception. No matter how many times Aziraphale offered to set them up a picnic lunch amongst his rubber plants and dracana, his succulents and peace lilies, Crowley always found a way to secure them a seat at an exclusive restaurant, and Aziraphale, eager to try something deliciously new, would forget about his garden for the time being and go.

Crowley wasn’t just jealous of his angel’s success as a gardener. His garden _bothered_ him. Those plants of his – they haunted Crowley, and he didn’t understand why. One Chinese Evergreen in particular, tucked in a far corner, slightly different than the others, was ever on his mind. It was luscious and green, overflowing with beauty and life … but it also had an air of melancholy about it.

How in the world a plant could seem _melancholy_, Crowley couldn’t explain. It just did. It trembled when he passed it, but in contrast to itself, it stood defiantly before him when he locked his serpent eyes on it. No matter how hard he glared, he couldn’t get the thing to back down.

Crowley discovered he hated it from the start.

One quiet night, while Aziraphale slept, Crowley slithered into the garden to confront the Evergreen and find out once and for all why it plagued him. He transformed in front of it, loomed over it, purposefully intimidating.

It responded to him the way it always did. It trembled. It shrank a hair. But then it straightened, stood calm and tall.

And this time, to Crowley’s surprise, it extended a leaf, and waited patiently.

Crowley stared at it, bewildered. He wondered if the thing was attempting to shoo him away, declare a boundary between he and it. Or if he should take the leaf and shake it like a human hand. But after a while, he got the distinct feeling that this plant wasn’t so much offering him its leaf, but showing it to him. Crowley bent over, examined it closely, but he didn’t know what he was meant to see. It was a leaf – a broad, green leaf, strong and healthy, shining from whatever blasted treatment Aziraphale wiped on it to make it shimmer like the sun.

Then he saw the scar, faint but present, and he knew.

This Chinese Evergreen had once been _his_.

He stood up quickly, stepped back, eager to be away from it, but a single brush of his finger against the tip of that leaf brought back the memories of what he’d done to it – how he’d yelled at it, shook it, decimated it, tossed it, and left it to rot. When it disappeared off his rubbish heap, Crowley had thought some bottom feeding herbivore had carried it away and eaten it. Or used it as nesting material.

How had it gotten _here_? How did Aziraphale …?

The stem holding that leaf extended itself farther, inviting another touch. Crowley stared, but eventually he touched it out of morbid curiosity.

He saw what the plant wanted him to see.

_Aziraphale_.

Aziraphale had saved it.

He’d plucked it from the garbage and carried it home.

He’d talked to it – told it it was beautiful, that it was worthy, that it had a place and a purpose in this world.

That it was going to be okay.

He _promised_ it a new home, safety, and a new life.

He’d trimmed it, planted it, watered it. Gave it a root hormone to help it find its feet again. He’d sung to it, read to it, took it for walks outside.

And before too long, it had roots again.

It was no longer pale and sickly.

It was verdant and robust.

It was still scarred, but mostly whole.

Because Aziraphale had helped it grow.

Not by putting fear into it.

But by showing it compassion.

As an angel, Aziraphale was love, and as the good book said (as far as he could remember - it’d been over a thousand lifetimes since he’d actually read the stupid thing): “Love is patient, love is kind. It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.”

But most importantly – Love never ends.

Crowley cared for his plants: misted them, fertilized them, talked to them, but he’d never been kind to them. He demanded obedience. Perfection. He had threatened his plants with the task to “Grow better!” And they had. They’d even overcome.

But they’d had help.

Plants trembled around him, holding out their leaves for him to touch. And touch them he did, one by one brushing their leaves, each one imparting a similar story of how Aziraphale rescued them from his trash and gave them a new life. It wasn’t just the one Chinese Evergreen as it turned out.

It was every plant in Aziraphale’s garden.

Not just Aziraphale’s garden, Crowley realized with a heavy and poignant thud in his chest.

_Their_ garden.

These plants didn’t have to be perfect for Aziraphale to help them. They didn’t have to be perfect for Aziraphale to be kind to them.

They didn’t have to be perfect for Aziraphale to love them.

That explained, in a small measure, how an angel like Aziraphale could love a demon like him.

Even though Crowley wasn’t one inclined to hope, especially where it concerned lost causes, Aziraphale’s garden gave Crowley hope … for _their_ future.

Now Crowley would love these plants, too, the way he should have from the beginning.


End file.
